Friday, 28 October 2016

Birthday Thoughts

I am, actually, not particularly interested
in genealogy, and I only know my family about five generations back. Beyond
that, there are only family legends, and I place no faith in legends.

Still, I am thinking of my ancestors. Not
any particular ancestor, just a line of shadowy figures stretching into the
distant past.

What might they have thought of me?

I can say that to them I would seem to be a strange creature. I am now 46 years
old. By my own standards I am middle aged, and I am probably the physically
fittest I have been in my life. But to them I would be very old; until very
recently, living to the age of sixty was considered to be such a feat to most
Indians that “may you live sixty years” was a blessing. I am also the only
child of my parents, something so astonishing that even when I was in college
in the 1990s I was asked by my classmates why my parents hadn’t bred other kids
– what if something happened to me?

On top of that, I am not only childless by
choice, I am equally by choice the last of the direct line. Why I have done
this I’ve explained elsewhere, in response to this article:

I am not a "millennial", whatever the hell that is, but I, as
with many of the people quoted in this article:
1. Have zero parental instincts. None whatsoever.
2. Don't like children. That's right,I totally do not like children.
3. Have better things to do with my limited time than breed.
4. Have better things to do with my limited finances than breed.
5. Don't give a tenth of a damn what "society" -that meaningless word
- thinks I should do with my genes.
6. Think anyone who brings a child into today's polluted, overpopulated, dying
world is a monster of depravity.
And also:
7. I'm not interested in creating a genetically obtained lifetime slave to
"take care of me in my old age", the standard argument of Indians.
Besides which:
I have a rich genetic heritage of:
1. Diabetes mellitus, which as yet I do not have.
2. Hypertension, which as yet I do not have.
3. Myopia, which I have.
4. Incurable, progressive bilateral sensory neuron deafness, which I have.
5. Obesity, which I had and which I have to work out an hour every day and stay
off anything remotely tasty so as not to ever have again.
And I also have
6. Bipolar disorder, owing to which I'm a suicide survivor and have to live on
literally one day at a time.
And I'm supposed to be "selfish" for not inflicting all that baggage
for a lifetime on some innocent kid just to satisfy some kind of "social
expectation"?
Screw that.

This would have all gone light years over
the heads of those worthies who had passed on their genes, one to another, all
of which had culminated in me. Not one of them would have failed to blink in
confusion if asked the simple question, “Why do you want a child?” It was
simply beyond their mental processes to examine the idea of why. They bred because of the same
reasons as they got married, the same reasons as they took to whatever line of
employment they did...because they were expected to, because that was
preordained from the moment they were born. They never paused to wonder if they
perhaps had a choice in the matter.

One of the stories from my father’s youth,
I only got to know when I was in my late teens. My father was an electrical
engineer, but he was never happy in the job, at which he was a consistent
failure. He’d always wanted to be a doctor, and even in his old age would sometimes
sigh with regret that he’d never got to study medicine. I finally was told by
my grandmother that my father had actually applied for admission to both medical
and engineering colleges, and had been waiting for information on whether he’d
been selected. This was back in the 1950s, long before the era of competitive
examinations. Anyway, it was his grandmother – my grandma’s mum-in-law – who decreed
that whichever college accepted him first, he’d join that course of study. As
it happened, the engineering college sent in its acceptance letter. The very
day my father left home for the engineering college – in fact, within minutes
of him leaving, while he was still near home – the letter of acceptance from
the medical college arrived.

So what did my father’s family do? Though
they knew quite well that he wanted to study medicine, did they call him back?
Did they at least even discuss what to do? Of course not. They shrugged, threw
the acceptance letter in the trash, and so totally ignored its existence that
my father himself only found out many years later how close he’d come to
becoming a doctor. And none of them cared about it, because the matriarch had
decreed what was to happen, so it was up to them all to obey.

I wonder what these people, with their
mindset, would have thought of me now.

I think they’d probably have taken me for
an alien. In many ways, my generation of my family, which grew up in the 1970s
and 80s, are aliens. Though we might live in the same places, even in the same
houses, we’re psychologically and emotionally of a different species. I doubt
my ancestors would have recognised us now.

Most of us in my generation are childless.
Most of us are unmarried. Most of us have no intention of passing on our genes.
Most of us are fine with that too.

It’s, of course, not just we who have
changed. Let me give you an example.

My grandmother – the same father’s mother I’d
mentioned – was married at the age of 12 to a man who was over twice her
age...and was mocked by her sisters-in-law for being an “old woman” for being
married so late. She was also exceptional for actually having some education,
being not only able to read and write but actually having completed six years
of formal education. She even taught herself the English alphabet. How she did
this was a story in itself. She used to sit outside the room in which her
brothers were being taught their ABCs and would eavesdrop, and with a piece of
coal scrawl out the alphabet on the back of an old shovel. One day her brother –
whom I later got to meet several times – caught her at this. That very day he
went out and bought her a notebook, and taught her how to do it properly.

That was my grandmother – mostly self-educated,
married at twelve, mother to as many as eleven children – and, though by
instincts a total liberal in the best sense of the word, a complete product of
her age. As far as social rebellion went, she never had an impulse towards that
in her life. She told me that it was expected for women of her time to be
barefoot in the presence of the older men of the family. If a woman happened to
see, for example, her husband’s elder brother while she was wearing shoes, she’d
have to take them off and carry them until she was past him. She would also
have to pull the hem of her sari low over her face to hide her features in the
presence of men, a form of burqa, and a much more inefficient one than the
straightforward Muslim version. And, of course, it would be inconceivable for
her to get a job of her own or do any kind of remunerative work whatsoever.

All of this – marriage as a child,
subservience to the men of the family, breeding like a machine – disappeared in
the course of just two generations, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with
legislation. The legislation passed by successive governments has been,
actually, spectacularly ineffective and even counterproductive. What worked was
social change over the years, which led the granddaughters of semiliterate child
brides to be independent career women openly living with their boyfriends and
who would only consider having children if they really wanted to.

I have this mental image of one of my
distant progenitors, say three hundred years ago. Let’s call him Shanand Ram
(this was actually the name of one of my putative ancestors). He would probably
have been an old man by the age of forty, and a grandfather by then several
times over. What might he have thought of me, today, on my 46th
birthday?

I don’t know, but I think he would have
been bemused more than anything. I don’t think he could have begun to understand
just how vast a space there is now between him and me, in mindset and
experience, and how different life is for us. If I could meet him, I wonder
what we might have talked about, and what he would have to say.

Well, at least there won’t be anyone in a
few hundred years wondering the same thing about me.

6 comments:

I am just one year behind you and I winder at these things too. It's endlessly interesting imagining what a conversation would be like. I know from journals that one of my first ancestors here was sickly a wanderer and couldn't find a job. He relied on the kindness of others. Today he likely would have been called homeless and dismissed. Back then he was white and had a good family name so was at the very least suffered. I had a great great great grandmother who ran away from the plantation. Nellie Mac was the name she used afterwards. She smoked a pipe and cigars when she could get them. Sometimes I think we aren't so different my ancestors and I. But we had a modicum of privledge not being brown. Also, not having traditions deeply ingrained. Americans are all about leaving tradition behind or rewriting it-no matter what they tell you. We only call tradition when it suits us. Anyway, Happy Birthday Bill. I enjoy knowing you even a little bit. Raising a glass to you.,

I wouldn't call hoping that your children take care of you when you're too old to take care of yourself enslavement. After all, if you raised them when they were young, it wouldn't hurt them to return the favor when you're old. Not having children is your choice, though. I can certainly understand the way you're looking at it. Things weren't as bad when I had my son.

You'll be reading this the day after your birthday. I hope it was a good one for you. I lost 2 siblings to suicide. Both of them were bipolar, I think in part, due to side effects of other medications unrelated to the disorder. Family, or people you consider to be family, is important to me. I hope you spent your birthday with the people you care about doing the things you enjoy. So glad you're here and survived your suicide attempt. It hurts horribly to be one of the people left behind after someone has committed suicide. I always wonder how life would have been if they had lived. Glad you're here and posting this blog.

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